by Candace Camp
“I thought you would find it a wearying task,” her cousin replied with a patronizing smile that made Isobel grind her teeth. He continued as they descended the stairs, “I trust you have decided to leave your grandmother’s room as it is?”
“There is no hurry, but eventually I shall pack up her personal items and store them away. That room has the loveliest view in the house. It would make an excellent chamber for guests.”
“You are going to move Mother’s things?” A furrow formed on Elizabeth’s forehead, and Isobel mentally chastised herself for letting Robert’s condescending tone goad her into mentioning the task in front of her aunt.
“Really, Isobel, don’t you think you are taking this a bit too far?” Robert harrumphed.
“I’m not getting rid of any of her things, Aunt Elizabeth. But it has been years since Grandmother’s been gone. I am sure she would like for the room to be brightened up and used instead of staying dark and shrouded in dustcovers.”
“Perhaps . . . though Mother was not very fond of brightening things up.” Elizabeth’s frown eased a little.
“Why don’t you help me, Auntie?” Isobel suggested, seeing that she had made a little headway with her aunt. “You can decide what should be packed away. You might want to keep some of her things with you. We could start after the wedding.”
As Elizabeth wavered, Robert said, “I shall be happy to take Aunt Cordelia’s keepsakes off your hands, Isobel, since you seem so anxious to move them out.”
“You?” Elizabeth gave him a scornful look. “I cannot imagine why you would want Mother’s things.”
“I was very fond of Aunt Cordelia,” he said frostily.
“Don’t be nonsensical, Robby. You were scared of her. Don’t you remember the time you ran and hid in the root cellar because you broke her favorite vase?”
Robert flushed. “I was eight at the time. As I grew older, I came to value her character and wisdom.”
Elizabeth snorted. “What a plumper!”
Isobel hid a smile. Inadvertently, Cousin Robert had probably just secured her aunt’s approval for clearing the bedroom simply by setting himself against it. Unsurprisingly, Robert refused Aunt Elizabeth’s invitation to take tea with them, bidding them a stiff adieu and stalking off to his carriage.
“Well. The nerve of that man.” Elizabeth turned to Isobel, her eyes sparkling. “Fond of my mother, indeed! He just wants to pick through her things in the hopes of finding something valuable.”
“He did think there were a number of items he should take home, including an elegant snuffbox and the first Robert Rose’s claymore.”
“I hope you did not let him take that!” Elizabeth looked at her in alarm. “Your father would never let him have it. He told Robby that sharing a name with the laird did not entitle him to the man’s possessions. Papa always hung the old laird’s claymore in a place of honor. Mother stuck it up in the attic only because she feared the British might seize it.”
“No. I told him Papa would not have let it leave Baillannan and I could not possibly go against Papa’s wishes. He could scarcely argue with that since he is so wedded to tradition.”
“Clever girl.” Elizabeth linked her arm through Isobel’s. “Now, let us talk about things that are far more important than Cousin Robert. Did you mean it when you said you were finished in the attic? For we have a number of tasks—far more pleasant ones, I might add. They will soon start bringing in food for the wedding, and the barn, of course, must be made presentable for the feast afterwards.”
“I am happy to help.” Isobel glanced over at her aunt as they took their places before the tea tray. In a carefully casual voice she went on, “I was rather surprised when Mr. Kensington came to take his leave earlier. Did you know beforehand that he intended to visit Inverness?”
“No. I knew nothing about it until this morning.” Elizabeth began to pour the tea. “He asked me what nearby town was larger than Kinclannoch, so I told him there was nothing but Wick to the north and Brora to the south, but neither of them are nearly the size of Inverness. I think he was a bit surprised that he had to go so far.”
“So it was a spur-of-the-moment decision?”
“That was the impression I had.”
“Did he tell you why?” Isobel took the cup from her aunt, but did not drink from it.
“Only that he had a few things he needed to purchase. I did not want to pry. You know how men are; no doubt he felt the need to . . . well, be on his own for a while . . . spread his wings a bit.” Pink tinged her cheeks. “After all, he is giving up the bachelor life soon.”
It dawned on Isobel what her aunt was trying to say, and she set down her cup and saucer with a clatter. “You mean he was going to—to visit a bawdy house?”
“Isobel! You should not even know of such places. I am not certain that is what he intends. But when he did not explain further, I assumed his purpose was one that it was better we not know.”
“Better for men, doubtless.” Isobel scowled. Jack might have kept silent about his trip for no reason other than to tease her, but he would not have done so to Elizabeth. Clearly he was embarked on something improper—and her aunt’s assumption seemed the likeliest possibility. No wonder he had been so mysterious about the purpose of his trip. “That wretch!”
“I’m sorry, dear, but, well . . .” Her aunt looked at her a little quizzically. “It is not as if it is a love match.”
Her aunt’s words pulled Isobel up short. “No, of course. You are right. It isn’t as if I am jealous. I don’t expect Jack to be a faithful husband. I assumed he would seek out the . . . the company of women when he returns to London. But here, so close to home, it seems insulting, don’t you think?”
“I suppose,” Elizabeth said doubtfully. “But if you are concerned about gossip, Inverness is quite some distance, and it is unlikely anyone in Kinclannoch would ever learn. Mr. Kensington would be discreet.”
“Jack is always most discreet. Secretive, one might say.” Isobel wondered why she had not realized the truth earlier. She had heard that men were apt to react to the prospect of marriage by engaging in a round of their wildest behavior.
Isobel thought of their hot, urgent kisses, remembering the way Jack’s skin had surged with heat and his mouth had consumed hers. Clearly Jack had a highly sensual nature—and he had none of the loving attachment to her that another man might feel for his future wife. It was easy to imagine that Jack might have gone in search of a woman more willing to satisfy his desires, more attuned to his needs—especially since she had assured him she had no interest in being his wife in anything but name only.
It was a bit lowering to think that any other woman would satisfy his hunger as well as she, but it was better this way. If his desires had been taken care of, he would cease importuning her. They would be able to coexist easily, at least for the few days until their wedding, and after that he would leave for London. She was glad that he would find what he wanted in another woman’s bed.
Really, she was.
The week following Jack’s departure dragged by. Aunt Elizabeth was happily immersed in preparations for the upcoming wedding, but Isobel could not seem to settle down to anything. Finally she was forced to admit to herself that she was bored. She missed the lively conversations at the dinner table. The house was excessively quiet without the sound of Jack’s voice or laugh. All too often she caught herself waiting for the sound of his footsteps in the hall. There was no sense of anticipation each morning when she awoke nor any of the little spark she felt when she entered a room and saw Jack standing there.
It was most annoying.
She tried throwing herself wholeheartedly into her aunt’s plans, but all too often her mind drifted to thoughts of Jack and what he was doing in Inverness. Was he spending his days in debauchery? At this moment, while she stitched flowers on the ruffle of a lawn nightgown, was he lying in bed with some other woman? Did he smile at her—in Isobel’s mind a voluptuous brunette with a stunningl
y beautiful face—and wind her curls around his finger? Did his heart hammer and his breath catch when he pulled her to his chest?
Isobel tried to wrench her mind from such pictures. It should not matter what he did. Theirs was a sham of an engagement, just as it would be a sham of a marriage. She did not herself want his attentions. The bitter burn that hovered in her chest was not jealousy. It was . . . it was resentment at his secretiveness. Yes, that was it. He had hidden it from her, deceived her.
Jack might, of course, have had some other, better reason to suddenly decide he must go to Inverness for a few days. Something that did not involve a woman. He could not have gone to visit a friend, for he was as much a stranger to Inverness as he was to Kinclannoch. He might have missed the city life he was used to—though Inverness would be a poor substitute for the lights of London. Maybe he missed gambling or needed money, so he had gone in search of a few nights of gaming. That was not unreasonable. But then she thought about the smoky public room of a tavern in Inverness, the tables of men drinking and playing cards. She did not have any experience of those, but from the remarks she had overheard of Andrew and his friends, that sort of place also had buxom wenches serving ale to the customers. And were not women of easy virtue also involved?
Isobel tore her mind from such thoughts and tried to concentrate on the preparations for her wedding feast. She envisioned the songs and dancing, the merriment. She thought of taking the floor with Jack, laughing, flushed with excitement, fizzing with the happiness of the celebration. But such thoughts always came thudding back to earth.
What would happen after the dancing? Would she simply go to her room and sleep alone in her bed? Would he come to her? Try to seduce her? Demand his marital rights? She could not believe Jack would be harsh or abusive. He would not try to force himself upon her. But seduction . . . that was more his style. Sweet words and sweeter kisses, that glinting look from beneath his lashes, the teasing smile and enticing caresses.
She would not give in to his blandishments. She could not. After all, pleasurable as his kisses might be, she knew that Jack would soon return to London. And she would stay here. For the first time she could remember, the thought of staying at Baillannan left her empty.
Even worse, what if he did not come back to Baillannan at all? What if her cousin was right and Jack had simply fled from their marriage? She told herself that he would not abandon her. He had promised he would return. But in the cold, dark hours of the night, when she lay tossing and turning in her bed, she had to face the fact that she had no reason to believe him.
Jack had admitted that he was no gentleman though he found it useful to pretend so. He was charming and pleasant, always ready with a smile or a quip. It was easy to like him, even to trust him. But those qualities, she knew, were his stock-in-trade, the passage he used to enter the world of the wealthy from whom he won money. Was that his true nature . . . or just a façade?
The fact was that he revealed little of himself. Whatever emotions bubbled beneath his surface rarely spilled out. He turned aside any talk about his past, just as he had avoided telling her why he was going to Inverness. When her aunt asked him where he was from, he had sidestepped the question and had done so again when Elizabeth asked whether his family would come to the wedding. Isobel remembered how easily the lie about his “ancestor” the contessa and her fictitious ring had sprung to his lips the other day.
The truth was, she knew nothing about the man. Had she made a terrible mistake?
Four days went by, then five and six, and still Jack had not returned. Isobel knew that others noticed his long absence and were concluding that he had jilted her. She saw the sidelong glances and heard the whispers as the local women gathered to prepare for the wedding feast. The servants had begun to look at her with pity, mingled with apprehension as they realized what it would mean for them if Isobel did not marry Jack.
Sleep became more and more elusive. With only two days left before the wedding, she climbed into bed, dreading the night of tossing and turning that she knew lay in front of her. Then she heard someone call out in the courtyard. She froze, listening. More voices. A whinny.
Isobel popped out of bed and shoved the drapes apart. There below her, a tall, dark figure was dismounting and handing the reins of his horse to a groom.
“Jack!” Isobel whirled and ran down the stairs.
The village of Kinclannoch lay in darkness as Jack passed through it. The half-moon provided little light, clouds drifting over it intermittently. He would be lucky if his horse did not step in a hole on the rough road. But he pressed on, keeping the pace slow and hoping that his horse could see the way better than he. He was not about to stop when he was this close to home.
He had already spent far longer than he had intended. Who would have thought it would be so difficult to find an adequate ring in Inverness? After an afternoon of frustration, it had become clear that the only solution was to take the stones from his cuff links and have them reset in the best of the wedding bands the jeweler possessed. The result had been surprisingly good, but he had been forced to idle away two days longer in the town than he had expected.
And a dreary two days it had been. The town offered little in the way of entertainment. He had found a game or two, but the stakes were too low to make it worth his while. The tavern at the inn was small and smoky, and though the wench who served his ale gave every indication she would welcome his advances, he discovered to his surprise that he had no desire to make any. After the past few days with Isobel, his body was thrumming, and he should have welcomed the chance to slake his desire with the wench. Instead, when she bent over the table to place his drink, offering a clear view of her lush breasts, his thoughts went to Isobel and the feel of her soft breast cupped in his hand, the nipple hardening provocatively beneath his touch. The come-hither glances the girl shot him held none of the allure of wide, grave gray eyes suddenly lighting with laughter or sparkling with heat. Her skin was white and soft, but it had none of the creamy texture that made his fingers itch to caress Isobel’s skin. The girl’s face did not glow as if lit from within when she smiled. And when she walked past him, hips swaying seductively, he compared her voluptuous figure to Isobel’s willowy form and found the barmaid too obvious and overblown.
However much hunger he might feel, it was only for that odd, unpredictable, unconsciously sensual woman who waited for him at Baillannan. The woman who in a few days would be his. Anticipation coiled within him. The marital bed had always sounded deadly dull to him, ordinary and orderly, with none of the lure of secrecy and the forbidden. Instead, he was beginning to think married sex might be the most enticing of all.
He had no doubt that he would eventually lure Isobel into that grand monstrosity of a bed he slept in—he had felt the passion simmering below that cool, controlled surface—and the thought stirred him in a way he had never before experienced. There would be no obstacle of time or deceit or fear between them, only the limitless freedom to follow their pleasure. She would be his in a way no other woman had ever been, bearing his name, even, someday, his child. She would come to him untouched and unschooled, and he would be the one to awaken her to desire. No other man would share her bed, none would hear her cries of passion or feel the sharp pleasure of her fingers digging into his back. Just thinking of it turned him hard and impatient.
That hunger had sent him from the tavern without even a backward glance at the willing serving wench. It was what drove him now. He wanted to be home. He wanted to seduce and cajole and tease Isobel. Damnit, he wanted to see her again.
He was so lost in thought that he had no hint of danger. His horse followed the road as it curved around a large outcropping of rock, then suddenly the animal stopped, whickering, and pricked its ears. Before Jack could move, a man stepped out in front of him and raised the front shield from his lantern, spilling a half circle of light over the road.
Jack’s mount stepped back, snorting and shaking its head, and Jack tightened his
hand on the reins, reaching toward his inside pocket with the other.
“Nay, dinna,” growled a voice above him, and Jack glanced up to see a figure standing on the rock, pointing a musket down at him. Even the poorest of shots could not miss him at such close range.
“The devil take it,” Jack muttered, and let his hand fall. It would be folly to try for the little gun he carried in the inner pocket of his jacket, and anyway it would be useless against the group of men before him. At least four of them were on the road, as well as the man aiming the musket at his head, and he could see vague shapes behind the others.
“It’s na him,” one of the men in the road said, turning to speak to one of the men beside the road.
“Nae, it’s the bonny lad frae the sooth.”
“The English,” another one added darkly.
The lantern at their feet cast only a dim light, still shielded on three sides, casting all its glow toward Jack. The men wore hats pulled low and mufflers wound around the bottoms of their faces, making it impossible to identify them—though Jack suspected that it would not be prudent to do so, anyway.
“Shall I shoot him, then?” asked the man on the rock.
“Nae,” came a low voice from the side of the road. “Dinna be daft. Are ye wantin’ to swing for it?”
Out of the corner of his eye Jack watched the man standing away from the others. His face was hidden by darkness, and Jack could see only the outline of his bulk against the darker rocks behind him. He could tell little about the man other than that he was tall and that his voice had a note of authority, which was confirmed by the way the others turned toward him when he spoke.
“Aye.” The man beside the lantern nodded sharply. “Just empty yer pockets then and ye can be on your way.”